


Tree 1K: The Tannenbaum One Thousand

by Ginger Jam (skylite), skylite



Category: Deadpool - Fandom, Marvel Comics - Fandom, X-Men (comics)
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Holiday, challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-25
Updated: 1999-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 10:47:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylite/pseuds/Ginger%20Jam, https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylite/pseuds/skylite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deadpool, the Merc with the Mouth, gets a very special Christmas contract.  Can he curtail his usual impulses and get the job done in exchange for a once in a lifetime payoff?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: The characters you recognize in this story are the property of Marvel Comics. They are used without permission, for entertainment purposes only, and there is no profit made from this story. 
> 
> FEEDBACK: Welcomed and appreciated. Anything you have to say, as long as it's polite - in other words, no flames please.
> 
> Sluggy Freelance is copyrighted to Pete Abrams and is used without permission, but I hope Bun-Bun would approve.
> 
> Special thanks, kudos, mistletoe kisses, silk boxers and accolades with rose petals to Matt Nute whose Deadpool knowledge made this story possible.
> 
> Extra special thanks to the regular crew of #subcafe who helped out with very important holiday reference.
> 
> WARNING: Very mild language.

It was Christmastime.

All over the world.

Even in the Hellhouse. 

Of course, Christmas spirit in the Hellhouse consisted mainly of some half-hearted decorations, and an unfortunate slowdown in the amount of work for the ill-tempered, rough-housing clientele to whom the little man known as Patch catered. 

The clientele, on the other hand, were as rowdy and mean-spirited as ever. Typhoid Mary cut her usual bloody swath through the crowd -- or, more accurately, they gave her room. The noise level was its usual deafening cacophony: the sounds of punches being thrown mingling with the sounds of beer cans being smashed against foreheads, billiard balls clinking against one another, raucous music, pagers sounding off, random macho shouts, and the rattle of Patch's five fax machines.

The balmy weather, unseasonable for December, let alone in Chicago, was doing nothing to improve the general atmosphere of the place. It had been eighty degrees since Thanksgiving. People were sweaty and cranky. The already volatile crowd at the Hellhouse became even more so with the abundance of alcohol and idle minds.

Outside, on the street, shoppers were having similar difficulty. The Windy City wasn't very windy, and the oppressive heat was making the mundanes as cranky as the mercenaries were. Festive red bows and tinsel hung limply from lamp posts and street signs, then slowly began to flutter as the wind picked up. Thermometers all over the city began dropping, and the first flakes of snow began to fall - with alarming speed.

Patch shivered, and reached a gnarled hand to slam his window as a breeze rushed through his office. "Damn, looks like the weather finally remembered what flippin' month it is." 

The door of the Hellhouse blew open on that selfsame breeze, bringing a blinding burst of snow with it. 

"Hey! Shut the damn locker room door!" yelled Fenway over his beer.

Unfortunately, the breeze had other plans. The wind whipped up to gale force intensity anytime anyone tried to get close enough to shut the door.

The breeze then vanished as suddenly as it had come, leaving three figures silhouetted in the doorway. Stepping into the dim light of the Hellhouse, the former two figures revealed themselves to be a set of twins - stunningly beautiful twins, with liquid brown eyes and lustrous brown hair. Their eyes darted quickly across the room in rapid scrutiny; each held her red-gloved right hand over the sidearm at her hip.

Once their inspection of the Hellhouse was complete, the twins curled their perfect Cupid's bow lips into identical sneers of disdain. They nodded first to each other, then to the figure who remained poised in the doorway. 

"It's safe, sir."

"That's being generous." 

"Now, girls. We're guests in the Hellhouse," boomed the mellifluous voice of the third figure. He remained shadowed despite having moved into the room. Murmurs traveled through the room, speculating on image inducers, telepathy, or illusion powers. All they could tell of the stranger with the twin bodyguards was that he was big. Very, very big. Whispers murmured in dubious, wondering voices whether it was the Blob looking for work, or the Kingpin slumming. Fenway grumbled that it better not be the Thing trying to bust up the Hellhouse. 

The wide-shouldered man strolled past the bar, and laid down a wad of bills. "A round for the house, my good man." The bartender blinked, and glanced out at the crowd, who were known to react to the scent of cold, hard cash. The twins flanked their patron, standing poised in a posture that indicated any trouble would be dealt with - swiftly and harshly.

Patch pulled his microphone down and tapped it once before speaking. "I'm Patch. I own this lousy excuse for a place. Whaddaya want here? You a Fed, you bought yourself a whole mess of trouble." 

The figure laughed heartily, to the point where his shoulders shook with mirth. "Hardly, Leslie. I have come to hire someone. I assure you, I am not a Fed."

Patch winced as the newcomer called him by his much-hated given name. Typhoid Mary and the twins glared daggers at each other across the room. The male contingent of the room gazed with drooling fascination at the two girls in red.

"Don't start none," said one twin. 

"Won't be none," finished the other with a toss of her head. "The man just wants to set up the job and go."

Patch shrugged from behind his bulletproof glass partition. "Okay, depends on what you need done. It's gonna cost you. It is Christmas an' all, ya know."

"Money is no object. But I have someone specific in mind, Leslie."

Patch was impressed. _This guy knows where the Hellhouse is, and who I am - but I've never seen him in here before. I'd remember a big man with two karate megababes._ "All right. Tell me the job, and I'll tell you who I've got."

The large man leaned in close to Patch's partition, revealing a shock of white hair and steely blue eyes. "It's a rescue mission. I wish casualties kept to a minimum. I desire it done before the 24th of December."

"Okay, we can do that - it'll cost ya, y'know, getting somebody to keep casualties down. That's extra."

"Money is no object. Besides, I have someone in mind. Wade Wilson."

Patch nearly swallowed his microphone. _Okay, this guy's a nutjob. He wants_ Deadpool _to keep the body count_ down?

"Leslie, my boy, you're looking a bit peaked. You really should take off for the holidays yourself. It will be good for you. Do we have a contract, then, my good man? I should like Wade Wilson to rescue one thousand children and keep the body count down." The steely blue eyes softened to a warm, gentle, avuncular twinkle.

"Afraid not, old man," Patch shook his head, mopping uneasily at his bald pate with a handkerchief. "Deadpool hasn't been seen 'round these parts since his throwdown with T-Ray a few months back."

"I assure you, it won't be that difficult to locate him. I'm sure Jack knows where to find Wade." 

"Jack?" Patch repeated, as the door blew open again. 

A skinny young man stumbled up to the bar, fumbling off his glasses, which had fogged up the moment he stepped from the blizzard outside into the relative warmth of the Hellhouse. He looked frightened and dazed, to say the least.

"Weasel!" One or two of the waitresses called cheerfully, reaching to drag him beneath the mistletoe that seemed to have spontaneously sprouted out of the ceiling. When they were done greeting him, he had lipstick prints all over his face and a slightly less frightened dazed expression.

The twins nodded approvingly, and shifted their stance atop their bright red high-heeled boots.

"Ah! Excellent! Jack, you're just the man I was hoping to bump into here." The large fellow reached out a white-gloved hand and clasped Weasel by the shoulder. "Come, share your expertise with Patch here, hm, and tell him where to find Wade." 

"Uh... " stammered Weasel, blinking.

"Close your mouth, dear," said one twin, smiling affectionately as she toyed with Weasel's hair.

"And answer the question," the other twin added, fingering circles on the front of Weasel's "Time to Die, Nerd-Boy" T-shirt. 

"Well, yeah, uh, I know where the Deadhut is, old timer," Weasel said, peering myopically at the large figure in front of Patch's booth. "Why should I tell you? You could be Ajax in disguise or some other enemy out for a piece of Wade's a- his aaa- . Wade's hiney." Weasel blinked in shock. _I wanted to say 'ass' !_

"His HINEY?" Typhoid Mary repeated, then doubled over laughing.

The twins smiled approvingly.

The gentleman beside Patch gave another deep, hearty laugh, and shook all over when he did so. "I am only looking to hire him. For your trouble." White gloved fingers moved in a lightning-quick motion, and there was a glint of metal in the light. 

When Weasel opened his hand, he found a small gold Krugerand in his palm. "Holy " he trailed off, goggle-eyed. "Okay, you're on." He vaulted over a table and was at the booth with Patch and the customer in a matter of seconds. "What can I do for you, Mister ....uh...? "

"St. Nicholas," laughed the large gentleman, bowing neatly. "Kristoph St. Nicholas."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade meets his boss and gets into the Christmas spirit -- kind of.

In San Francisco, the little townhouse known to a select few as the Deadhut was filled with the smell of gingerbread baking, and the sound of the Carol of the Bells.

_Hark! How the bells, sweet silver bells  
All seem to say, "Throw cares away."  
Yuletide is here, bringing good cheer  
To young and old, meek and the bold  
Ding, dong, ding, dong, that is their song,  
With joyful ring, all caroling  
One seems to hear words of good cheer-_

The cheerful voices stopped abruptly as a sword-blade was thrust into the CD player. The song died away in a shower of sparks. 

"Hey!" yelled Blind Alfred angrily. "That was my Mormon Tabernacle Choir album!" 

Deadpool, wrapped in a tattered red terrycloth robe over his costume, let his knees go out from under him and dropped to the floor. The last year hadn't been kind to him. Neither, for that matter, had the year before that.

Wade thought back as far as he could: 

His healing factor was running out. Dr. Killebrew, who'd made him the man he was today (hah!) had died in the Alps at the hands of Wade's old enemy Ajax.  
That had left a Wade who had been trying so *very* hard to walk the straight and narrow, to kill Ajax so some old friends from the Weapon X reject hospice  
could rest easy in death. 

There had been his drunken binge in the Field of Dreams, ending with a revelation from Typhoid Mary that made the surprise scene from "The Crying Game" seem like small potatoes. His well-intentioned field trip to Monte Carlo with Montgomery had ended up in catastrophe - Dixon had mindwiped the entire event from the precog's mind. 

Most recently, he had also discovered that he was a washout as the Mithras - and that he would not be the one to herald in a new golden age of peace, doing the only thing he was good at - killing. 

And all of that paled in Wade Wilson's eyes, as compared to the worst thing that had happened to him over the past year - he had used up every last drop of good will that Theresa Rourke Cassidy had had left in her heart for him.

Wade knew, somewhere behind the part of his mind that was railing against the cruelties of his life, that Alfred was doing her best to cheer him up by teaching Zoe Culloden to bake Christmas cookies - but the merc with the mouth was just not having any of it. Cheery Christmas music was the last thing he wanted to hear.

Zoe came out of the kitchen, looking rather comical with the frilly white apron over her hot pink spandex bodysuit. "Wade, get up. Get over it. We'll stop Dixon. We'll avenge Noah and Monty. But not today. We need time to pull ourselves together again. Cut off from Landau, Luckman & Lake, I have no resources." 

Wade didn't answer. He didn't even look up. 

From the kitchen, Blind Alfred could be heard to gasp and swear softly under her breath. "Damn it, are you nuts coming back here, Weasel?"

Wade's head snapped up. _Monty said I had to apologize and make right for my mistakes._ He sprang to his feet, bolted past Zoe, and skidded into the  
kitchen. "Did I hear you say Weasel, Al?"

"Oh, God, so much for my nice clean kitchen," moaned Alfred. "At least the blood is red - it'll be festive. Right. Snort." 

To Al and Weasel's surprise, however, Deadpool did not reach for a knife with which to gut his old hacker pal Weasel. Instead, he simply hugged Weasel once, tightly, and said, "I'm sorry, man."

Weasel flashed an uncomfortable smile and nodded. "S'cool. Really. Uh, listen, you got a client at the Hellhouse." 

"How the hell did you get here?" Wade demanded, shrugging out of his robe. 

"The girls drove me. Their ride is - really fast." Weasel jerked a thumb out back, where a rope ladder dangled at window level. "I'm to bring you back to the Hellhouse so you can draw up the contract."

"Wait. Jus' hol' on a secon', Lucy," Deadpool drawled in a credible Ricky Ricardo. "You're tellin' me that chu got from the Casa de Diablo in Chicago to the Casa de Muerte in San Francisco-- "

Weasel nodded. "C'mon, the girls are not exactly what I'd call patient. They don't like to stand still when their boss is out of sight." 

"Why not," Wade shrugged. "Couldn't be any worse than sitting here with Suzy Homemaker and Betty Crocker. Don't wait up, girls." 

"'Bye, Al," Weasel said softly, leaning to peck the old woman on the cheek with a sprig of mistletoe held overhead. Blind Alfred blushed, and for a moment, looked 10 years younger.

"But what about the cookies?" protested Zoe, frowning as Wade swung out the window and shimmied up the rope ladder.

"Keep 'em warm," Weasel grinned, then bent Zoe backward into a deep toe-curling smooch, before he too exited out the window and up the rope ladder.

"The Ride" in question was a fire engine red, big-finned '57 Cadillac modified for VTOL. Deadpool was impressed. He was more impressed when he saw the girls behind the wheel. 

"Welcome aboard," said one twin, smiling fit to put a toothpaste ad to shame. "I'm Vixen. This is my sister. Make yourself comfortable. We'll have you speaking with The Boss in a few minutes."

The seats were thickly padded and upholstered in kid-soft red leather. Deadpool shrugged and settled in. The other twin turned and smiled over the tops of the seats at Deadpool and Weasel. "Don't forget to buckle your seat belts. Thank you for flying ETR air."

"Not a problem, babe," Wade leered, then added, "Ohhhhhhhh, FUUUUUUDDDGGGGGEEE!" as the Caddy sped off to the east, toward Chicago.


	3. Chapter 3

The twins preceeded Wade and Weasel into the Hellhouse, their brown doe eyes immediately seeking out their corpulent boss. He was engaged in a game of Pinochle with Typhoid Mary, Fenway and Bullseye, of all people. Behind the old fellow stood a handsome, muscular young man who had to be an older brother of the sexy red-clad twins.

Under his mask, Wade raised one scarred brow at the scene. "Ooookaaayyy," he said after a moment's scrutiny. "Who do you want me to kill, and what souvenirs do you want me to bring back?"

"Oh, you misunderstand, Wade," began Kristoph, but stopped at once. 

At the mention of his name, Wade had closed the space between the old man and himself and had a knife up to his throat. In the same heartbeat, the twins had both raised their guns to Weasel's temples and cocked the triggers. 

"Wow, that's pretty fast. Where do you girls shop, I gotta get Al and Zoe Wonderbras like those," quipped Wade, holding his knife where it was.

"Wade ?" squeaked Weasel. "You wanna back down off the big guy?"

"He used my real name, Weaz," Wade replied coolly, remaining where he was. The muscular young man took a step forward, but St. Nicholas held up a hand.

"It's all right, everyone calm down. It disconcerted Leslie when I called him by his real name too. And Jack as well. I meant no harm, truly." Kristoph  
looked completely unflapped by the fact that Deadpool had a serrated blade under his thick beard. 

"Leslie?" Deadpool echoed, eyes widening behind his mask.

"Repeat that name again and you'll never work outta the Hellhouse again, Wilson," Patch grumbled.

"Leslie?" Deadpool snickered.

"Wade ...?" squeaked Weasel, as the twin who'd introduced herself as Vixen pressed the barrel of her gun a bit harder into his forehead.

"So how do you know my real name?" Deadpool demanded, his demeanor indicating he'd be quite content to wait out the twins if he didn't get an answer he  
liked.

"Oh, come on," came a sarcastic voice. "You're not really that stupid, are you?"

Deadpool, Leslie, and Weasel all turned to look over at the handsome young man in red. "What do you mean? Is there something obvious I'm missing here about  
howcome he knows us all so well?"

The twins stamped their feet and indignantly chorused, "Donner!"

The young man in red simply shrugged his shoulders and hummed under his breath. 

"I knew we should've had Rudolph come, Dancer," Vixen complained to her sister. "He's the bright one."

Deadpool swiveled his head to glower at Donner, knife still poised. "That's a familiar tune. Why do I know that song?"

"It's the answer to your question, my boy," Kristoph chuckled merrily. Then, lifting his baritone voice in song, continued, "He sees you when you're sleeping. He knows when you're awake. He knows if you've been bad or good, so be good-"

"Oh, for C-Chr-Chri Goodness sake!" Deadpool bellowed, cutting off Kristoph in mid-song. "Whose stupid idea was this? Mary?" Then he blinked. "Why the fudge can't I say ...c-c-criminy?! Why the heck can't I say cripes?!" Deadpool ranted incoherently for several minutes, trying to scream every swear-word he knew -- in several anguages -- without success.

Kristoph waited patiently. "Are you done, son?"

"I suppose so," Deadpool reluctantly admitted.

"Do you believe now that I am who you think I am?"

"Well, the fact that I can't fudging swear or throw a gosh darn curseword is pretty gee-golly convincing, don'tcha know." Deadpool sheathed his knife. "Okay, you've hired yourself the merc with the mouth. I will not wear cute little silver bells on the toes of my shoes, get that straight now." 

"Mary, dear, get us some hot cocoa and cookies while we work out the list, hmmm? That's a good girl," Krisotph said as Typhoid Mary obediently got up and went to the kitchen without so much as a rude comment to Deadpool.


	4. Chapter 4

Six hours later, over hot cocoa and cookies, it had been settled. The outcome had only remained in doubt until the cookies arrived, and Mary set down a plate of chewy, home-baked oatmeal chocolate chip cookies in front of Deadpool. They were fresh out of the oven, fragrant, and he found himself misty-eyed with nostalgia. He hadn't   
had any since he was about eight and his mother had made them for him on a snowy December afternoon. His resolve had wavered for another minute before he'd picked up a cookie; then he'd taken a bite and it had been all over.

Deadpool had been given a list of names. Every name on the list belonged to a child who was on a milk carton somewhere a runaway, missing, or kidnapped. St. Nicholas had, quite calmly, said that the children came first, and that violence was to be used as a last resort - unless the children were being abused by the sicker elements of mankind. In which case, even Kristoph agreed that all bets were off. Whatever it took to get the children out safely.

"All righty then," Deadpool said, taking the last cookie with almost religious reverence. He glanced at Weasel expectantly. "What've you got on my ... client?"

Weasel looked up from where he'd spent the past six hours hunched over his laptop and shrugged helplessly. "Sorry, Wade. No dossier." 

Wade was pleased his mask concealed his expression of dubious surprise. He turned to Kristoph and jabbed a gloved finger into the center of the large man's red necktie. "If you're who you say you are, I will take my payment out with you after I'm done. That jake with you, Big Guy?" 

Kristoph laughed heartily and nodded. "That suits me just fine. Jessica was right about you, my boy." He rose, brushing cookie crumbs out of his beard. "Here's the address of the safe house. One thousand children, safe and warm, by Christmas Eve, and you get whatever payment you desire, Mr. Wilson." 

Wade nodded, thumbed the teleporter at his belt, and vanished. "I'll hold you to that." 

His words hung in the air for a split-second after the last trace of the teleport twinkled away.


	5. Chapter 5

WARNING: This chapter contains violence and a PG-13 level curseword.

**MISSION ONE: Westchester, NY**

Richard and Jane Brown sat huddled together in the den. The Christmas tree was carefully decorated in real popcorn and cranberries. Fragile ornaments of filigree and glass were lovingly hung on the branches, and the air smelled faintly of pine. 

But instead of the inviting frarance of cookies or eggnog, the air reeked of cheap beer, cigarettes, garbage too long unattended and burned TV dinners.

Richard and Jane's father was in the living room. In front of the TV. Drunk again. Unconscious. As he'd been every night since the death of his wife Linda. The man who'd appeared in the airport had said Jack had killed his wife, even though it had been his small eight year old son who'd crushed his mother's head with a shovel. The kids had been hungry and malnourished. Their mother's death had been ruled an accident. Their aunt had offered to take them, but their father had refused to relinquish them. 

So the children had each other, the Christmas tree they struggled to put up because "Mom would've wanted it that way," and they were trying to endure their first holiday without her.

"Hi, who ordered the pizza?" 

Richard and Jane glanced up and found a red-masked face under a red Christmas toque at their window. One hand waved merrily; the other held up a steaming pizza box. 

"Pizza!" both children reacted predictably and raced to open the window. 

*POP*

In a flash-twinkle, Deadpool spirited off the children, leaving only a pizza box with remnants of anchovies and pepperoni sitting on the floor. "Ho, ho, ho, and *away* we go -- 10 down, 990 to go!" 

In the living room, Jack Brown snorted, mumbled in his drunken sleep, and dozed more deeply. Another teleport signature burst, and Deadpool had come and gone once more -- leaving the easy chair buried knee-deep in charcoal briquettes -- spritzed liberally with a combination of Everclear and 151 Proof Bacardi. 

Jack Brown's cigarettes and lighter were on the end table beside his easy chair -- in simple reach for when he awakened from his drunken   
stupor. _Of course,_ Wade mused, _It's almost time for New Year's resolutions...he could always give up smoking..._

*****

**MISSION THIRTY: Crete, Greece**

Deadpool glanced down at the list. In 36 hours he'd knocked off 100 names from the Tannenbaum Thousand. He'd rescued at least fifty kids in various cities all over the USA from drug-addict parents. The other forty eight aside from the Brown kids had been babies who would've ended up in trash cans or hotel room closets.

 _What kid is in danger here? It's Fantasy freakin' Island,_ Wade thought. He checked the list. The location was right. Whistling "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer," Wade flicked on his image inducer and took on a holographic image of Aristotle Onassis. Shouldering his inflatable sheep gun, he strolled down the hillside   
toward the cliffside villa that overlooked the sea.

A digital recording of hoofbeats and bleating started as each sheep was fired through an open window and inflated upon impact. Bedlam ensued with a speed Deadpool found most satisfying and encouraging.

Nibbling contentedly on her toes and cooing alertly from her bassinet lay a baby. The baby had a downy cap of dazzling red hair, and bright hazel eyes. Wade felt an unaccustomed flutter in the vicinity of his heart. "Awww, aren't you just pweci--" he began, but caught himself. _What am I SAYING?!_ He reached for the little girl, who reached back and curled her tiny fingers around Wade's forefinger.

"YOW!" Wade yelped, "What a grip!" The baby was -- rather strong for her age. _Mutant baby. Cute, though._ He gently extruded his finger, gathered the baby in her blanket, and vanished in a burst of teleport energy. The baby's giggle hung in the air a second later.

*****

**MISSION 750: Palos Verdes, NM**

The thirteen year old girl with no hair and the dot on her forehead sat forlornly in her cell. They didn't know who her parents were. 

They couldn't very well hand her over to Social Services. She was a mutant. The halls were hung with tinsel and tiny twinkling lights -- in an effort to brighten the place up for Christmas. 

Daria wondered if Jubilee was celebrating Christmas safe and sound. She'd sacrificed her freedom so the firecracker girl could get home safe to be with her loved ones. And now she was alone. In a cold cell. Afraid. Of her future. Of herself.

"Hi, Christmas Express, when you absolutely, positively need to spend Christmas somewhere other than this hellhole!" 

Daria whirled, fingertips buzzing with the beginnings of her insectoid powers. "Who are you?" she demanded of the tall figure leaning jauntily against the wall. 

"One of Santa's elves," Deadpool replied, giving his left foot a shake. A trio of sleigh-bells gave a merry jingle. 

"Santa?" Daria repeated, wide-eyed. "Wow. Is this a Christmas Miracle?"

"You betcha," Deadpool confirmed, and dropped his red hat onto Daria's bald head. "No reindeer."

*BAMF*

*****  
 **MISSION 862: Antarctica.**

The catacombed network of caves that used to be Magneto's base flooded with bluish sleep gas. Deadpool, noseplugs in place, waited and watched. _This better work,_ he thought. _Then again, Zoe said it'd get through the filters. Let's see._

Two minutes later, Deadpool strolled brazenly down the center cavern, singing "Walking 'Round in Women's Underwear" (to the tune of Winter Wonderland) at the top of his voice and decidedly off-key. There were intruder alarms going off, but there were no rushes of goons. 

"Aw, Al," Wade mused, "Ya shouldn't have. How'd you know I wanted an acetalyne can-opener for Christmas? And ya gave it to me _early,_ too..." Deadpool sniffled exaggeratedly, then set the torch to peeling out the suit of armor worn by the Orphan Maker. 

"You," said an icy, indignant voice, "are _not_ a nice little boy. And you will get a switch for Christmas." 

Wade turned and found the chromium-steel cheerful face of Nanny gazing over her spectacles at him. "Deadpool, isn't it? What kind of name is that for a nice little boy? None at all." She flipped a switch, and the lights dimmed as the air filled with mechanical whirring. "There, now. Your nasty-wasty mutant powers are all gone, and you can leave my Orphan Maker with me, where he belongs."

"Afraid not," Deadpool grinned under his mask. "See, I'm not a mutant. Merry Christmas." He bowed, and lifted the sleeping little boy from the Orphan Maker armour. 

Deadpool laughed; Nanny screamed. And then Wade was gone. 

*****

**MISSION 950: Somewhere in the Pacific.**

December 23, and Deadpool's count was 950. Fifty little lives left to save. Fifty little lives would earn him his payment from ... _Please, if there's a God, this guy is who he says he is._ It had been easy. 

Too easy.

Nobody had died. 

Yet.

Wade knew this, being the final, and the biggest rescue -- would not be easy. 

And the final fifty kids were all in one place. Together.

On a ship heading toward the coast of California to be sold into slavery in Chinatown.

The teleporter left him tingling and anxiety left him breathless. Fifty children were too many for his teleporter to handle, even one or two at a time. He would have to do this one without a net. And by the book. St. Nicholas had said the body count was to stay down. It had been difficult, so difficult. But so far he'd reigned in the more violent of his impulses.

A sleeper hold took out the first guard he encountered. Then it was into the galley, where he tuned his image inducer to look like Yan from PBS' Yan Can Cook, and dumped curare extract[1] into the staff's food in plain sight of the other sailors. When the huge pot of spaghetti was ready to be served, Wade wheeled it out himself, ready to follow the drugged food with sonic sleep-inducers and tranq darts if necessary.

He nearly dropped his tranq gun when he saw who sat at the head of the table.

T-Ray.

T-Ray, who had beaten the living hell out of Deadpool -- quite literally to within an inch of his life -- and then walked away after doing something. Wade could feel his blood boil. He could see his vision turning red with rage. He could taste bile in his throat as the fury surged up in him, demanding that he take his revenge. _I could do it.  
I could snap his neck, toss him overboaard, and pilot this ship to shore. But St. Nicholas would know. You got lucky tonight, T-Ray. If I see you on the 26th, you're dogmeat._

Struggling against the voice in his head that demanded T-Ray's private parts dangling like christmas ornaments from his belt, Deadpool turned resolutely and marched back into the kitchen and went through "The Twelve Pains of Christmas" in his head, until he could count off the soft thuds of every crewman keeling over unconscious onto the   
table, each other, or the floor. _Twenty...twenty-one...twenty-two...twenty-three...twenty-four..._

Twenty-four.

Not twenty-five. 

There was one who hadn't keeled over from the doped dinner.

 _T-Ray, of course,_ Deadpool thought. _I can smell him. The dirty bastard hasn't fallen._

Moving with a desperate, nimble speed, Deadpool climbed abovedecks, vaulted the bulkhead, and checked the settings in the steering cabin. _International waters._ Reversing his tracks, Wade stalked back toward the galley. T-Ray was still conscious. Barely. And fighting off the curare through sheer unadulterated stubbornness.   
Around him, the rest of his crew had passed out. He stumbled toward the stairs, muttering to himself. Deadpool swung from the pipes overhead, booted feet landing square in the center of T-Ray's back. The metal stairs rang with the sound of T-Ray's heavy body hitting the stairs over and over. He lay at the bottom. 

_Breathe, motherfucker,_ Wade thought, descending the stairs. _Don't you be dead. I won't have you messing up my big chance._

Then T-Ray was all over him, lunging up and into Wade, knocking him back into the deck. St. Nicholas' hired mercenary saw stars, then had to marshal his strength to fight off a wave of blackness that threatened to knock him into unconsciousness. _I...won't...give...in..._  
Instead, he allowed himself to go limp, feigning unconsciousness. 

Logy and injured. T-Ray had to struggle to remain standing as he lugged the limp Wade toward the aft of the ship. "Keelhaul..." he   
murmured. 

"Nice idea, buttmonkey," Wade jeered, "But it's Christmas, so I'm cutting you some slack. See you on the 26th if you really want that rematch." Wilson dropped to the floor, stood on his hands, scissored his ankles around T-Ray's neck and bent over backward, flinging the bulk of his opponent over the side and into the blue Pacific.   
Carelessly, Deadpool followed with a pair of throws -- the splash T-Ray made was followed by the splash of two life preservers and the inflatable raft. 

"Touchdown." Deadpool held both hands over his head and returned to belowdecks. "Hi, kids, who wants ice cream?!"

 _It's not tears. It's just the fumes from the curare,_ Wade told himself   
as the children burst into jubilant cheers and knocked him down with   
overjoyed hugs.

*****


	6. Chapter 6

**CHRISTMAS DAY INTERLUDE**

Mary Jane Watson Parker was in Sydney Australia, smiling under the hot lights and bright flashes of cameras as she modeled for the new Calvin Klein fragrance. It was December 26th there, and she couldn't fly back to New York. Nothing was flying into Kennedy or LaGuardia because of a freak snowstorm. Her husband Peter had instead rented a car to drive to DC and catch a flight for himself. 

She hadn't heard from him since Christmas eve. She was afraid the snow had kept him in the states.

Then the door opened, and there stood Peter Parker, looking for all the world like he'd seen a ghost.

"Peter?" 

"MJ..." her husband stammered.

Mary Jane rushed to hug her husband, but he pulled aside what he had been holding behind his back. A baby carrier. 

In the carrier was a tiny, cheerful baby with a shock of bright red hair and alert hazel eyes. A baby who had the two curls on her forehead that matched Peter's characteristic two. A baby who had Mary Jane's nose and mouth. 

"M-May....?" Mary Jane gasped, shaking hand coming to her mouth. "H-How...?"

"I was about to leave the house to catch the flight -- and there she was. Under the tree. The door was locked. The windows were locked. I d-do-don't know...but it's her. It's _her._ "


	7. Chapter 7

**December 26. Chicago. The Hellhouse.**

The decorations were _gone_. Typhoid Mary had torn them down -- with a machete -- the second the clock had struck 12. 

Christmas had come and gone. Weasel had watched the AP wire; stories had showed up all over the globe of children reunited with their parents. Wade's Tannenbaum Thousand had gotten their own Christmas miracles. And Wade had spent Christmas in the Hellhouse, knocking back tequila poppers with Donner, who assured him that the Boss would come through as promised -- but that getting around the world in one night was no easy task, even with magick reindeer.

Wade stared out the window at the snow, fingers drumming a crazed tattoo on the tabletop. When he lifted the shot glass to his lips and discovered it was full of wassail, he felt a weight lift from his heart.

"Well done, Wade, my boy," boomed the soft baritone. "Would you prefer gold bullion, rare blue diamonds, uranium, a new gun...?" 

Wade stood and shook his head. "No. Actually, I want a wish." 

St. Nicholas tipped down his iridescent snow-shades and smiled. "Then you're giving me a bargain. What would you like, my boy? Aside from a pony, world peace, or your two front teeth, I can be flexible." 

Wade looked at the floor. "I messed up real bad with someone who means the world to me. I wish I could make it up to her, show her how sorry I am, and...and let her know that I may be crazy, but she's worth going sane for." 

Kris' blue eyes widened, and his rosy red cheeks lit in a bright, approving smile. "Ah, Terry Cassidy. I should've realized. I think that can be arranged. Visit her tonight, Wade. And _use the door_ , hm?"

"Uh..." Wade stammered, for once at a loss for words.

"I assure you, lad, Terry's staying at that lovely large house in New York, after visiting her father in Massachusetts. The others have all gone to visit their families. Best of luck to you. I'll recommend you to my colleague, Mr. Skellington -- he has a major problem with all the twisted folk who have sullied his holiday with razor blades in apples and the like." 

Kris clapped twice, and Donner stood. In a blink, the handsome guy in red PVC was replaced by a brown ten-point reindeer wearing a red bell-collar. St. Kristoph laid a finger aside his nose, gave a nod -- then vanished, reindeer and all.


	8. Chapter 8

Twenty four hours earlier, Theresa Cassidy sat in the Westchester mansion with a bowl of popcorn. X-Force had other things to do. James had gone to find Risque and forgive her. Tabitha and Roberto had flown to Brazil. Dani had gone home to Colorado. Jesse and Domino were searching for Jesse's brother. And Sam had gone home to be with his sick mother. Her father, who she had intended to surprise, had gone to Muir Island to be with Moira for Christmas. Leaving Siryn with no plans for the holiday, and an empty mansion all to herself.

The doorbell rang precisely as the Christmas Marathon had gone to commercial between the end of "A Christmas Story" and "Dr. Seuss' How The Grinch Stole Christmas." Terry frowned; all the X-Men had keys. The security system would've alerted to an intruder. She got up and walked to the door.

Wrapped in a big red box with a big green ribbon was a box -- on the doorstep, bearing a tag that read "To Terry, from Santa." Theresa gave a low-harmonic hum, pinging 'radar' off the contents of the box. To her surprise, it gave her a reading of 'empty.' Curious, she lifted the lid off the box, and a lightshow display began before her eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

_I can face T-Ray without blinking. I can face Dr. Killebrew with a song in my heart and a smile on my face. But here I stand, at Terry's door and my knees are knocking so hard they can hear 'em in Poughkeepsie._ Deadpool knocked before his courage deserted him.

The door opened, revealing a Theresa who looked like she'd been crying. 

"Terry, you okay?" Wade asked, immediately reaching a hand toward her cheek.

"Aye, Wade, never better." She tugged him by the elbow and into the living room. Instead of the Yule Log or Christmas movies on her TV, the room was one big 3-D hologram, which replayed shots of Wade. 

Wade snuggling a baby and making baby talk to her in Greece. 

Wade watching two children eat pizza while Vixen and Dancer looked on approvingly.

Wade getting a mistletoe-kiss from a girl no more than five after rescuing her from a fire.

Wade sparing T-Ray's life and being mobbed by grateful children.

Wade can-opening the Orphan Maker and taking him to safety. Rescuing him from Nanny.

"Ye were the one who rescued all those children," Terry breathed. "Why?"

Wade shuffled a foot and shrugged. "Because the price he offered was too good to pass up. Terry, I ... I've been a major idiot. You tried to help me, and I used you like a drug, instead of trying to accept what you could give me. When you turned away, I realized just how crazy I was. Being crazy might be fun, but if being sane keeps you in my life, I'll try. For you. Even succeed. If you forgive me."

Terry didn't answer for a long moment.

_Brace yourself, Wilson, old son -- this is gonna hurt._

But instead, Terry threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. Tightly. "Ye have changed, then, Wade Wilson. I always hoped the good man I saw in ye would fight his way tae the surface. It looks like ye made it. I forgive ye." 

There was a slight rustle overhead. Both of them looked up and found an inordinately large mistletoe sprig hanging in mid-air over their heads without any visible means of support.

"Looks like somebody wants us to kiss and make up," Terry chuckled wryly. She stood onto her tiptoes, and peeled the mask up off Wade's chin. Gently, she bestowed a brief kiss to his lips. "I'm so proud o' ye, Wade. I knew ye could do it."

 _Quick, before the moment is over,_ Wade thought, and blurted, "In case I never get the chance to say this again...I love you, Terry." 

Terry's green eyes brightened and she kissed him again. 

Wade's vision swam and he suddenly felt feverish. He braced a hand on the wall, and sank to his knees. "Oh...okay...I can die now, yeah...." And then the world went black around him.

*****

When consciousness returned to him, he was warm and surrounded by soft silky sheets. Terry was curled up asleep beside him in a long red nightshirt. 

There was a tap on the window. Wade stumbled blindly toward the sound and fumbled open the window. 

"The Boss says he's glad your payment worked out. This one's from us." Vixen and Dancer grinned at him from their cherry red Cadillac. 

The two of them leaned over simultaneously and blew Wade a kiss. Snow blew into Wade's face, tickling his skin. "Let the outside match the inside," chorused the twins, then their VTOL-mobile took off, straight up, and sped to the north.

Wade chuckled. "I'm luckier than I deserve," he said to himself, and went back to bed, bestowing a kiss on Terry's cheek. Sleep came easily to him for the first time in memory.

*****

He woke with Terry's silky red hair tickling his chin. She still wore her long red nightshirt, and he a pair of red plaid flannel pajamas. "If this is a dream, I plan to spend the rest of my life asleep," Wade murmured, kissing Terry's forehead. 

"Silly man," Terry murmured, leaning back to look up at him. Then she gasped. "Dear God, Wade..." Her green eyes were wide and   
shocked.

_Oh, God -- my mask!_

Wade leapt from the bed, rolling onto the floor and pulling a blanket behind him. Face blazing with self loathing and shame, he huddled on the floor. 

To his surprise, Terry leapt after him. 

"I'm sorry to scare ye, Wade," Terry murmured, stroking her fingers through his hair. "It was just such a surprise."

 _Hair?!_ Wade realized belatedly. _I have_ hair?! His hand went to his head. _Yep, hair._ Furthermore, his skin was not a moonscape of craters and scars. It was smooth. Almost afraid to move, he lowered the blanket from his face and looked down at himself. His hands were unscarred. His chest. He lifted his eyes toward Terry --

\--and found her holding up a little pocket mirror. Reflecting the image of a Wade Wilson who hadn't existed since before the Weapon X program.

******

And on a TV, far, far to the north, Kristoph St. Nicholas watched the scene unfold and nodded with approval.

**THE END**

[1] Curare extract if ingested is not lethally poisonous. It will put you to sleep though. I looked it up. 


End file.
